


Song and Dance

by LittlestMedic



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, wilson mends thing like a MAN.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3473825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlestMedic/pseuds/LittlestMedic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson is given a gramophone to mend- no, not THE gramophone- and his reward is being taught to dance. He reacts about as well as you could expect coming from a shut in scientist who took advice from a radio about forbidden knowledge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Song and Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a headcanon from my bestie & beta reader, Dee.

The gramophone currently standing in front of Wilson perplexed him. It wasn’t a particularly malevolent gramophone, like perhaps another gramophone that could be observed in this wilderness, nor was it as well maintained. It was rusty, old, and seemed to be falling apart.  
  
Naturally, this gave him the almost undeniably overwhelming urge to fix it. The fact that the other members of their motley crew- the mime fellow, Wes, and the terribly overbearing strongman, Wolfgang- had dumped it unceremoniously in the centre of their encampment, directly opposite his tent, suggested that it was camp opinion that he fix it.  
Not that Wilson had been alerted about any of this. Quite a lot seemed to happen in their rather pathetic little base without him knowing about it, despite him having been instrumental in designing it. In fact, he was fairly sure he was the first one here. Then Willow. Then Wolfgang…  
  
The bell of the gramophone seemed like it was staring at him. Wilson’s hands itched to tinker with it- he was a scientist, it was in his _blood_. Nothing could possibly dull the fire that burnt in his belly when he was trying to fix or create something.  
  
Rolling his eyes and inwardly groaning, Wilson pulled himself up and away from the prototype bunny trap he’d been making. Improving the camps food production would just _have_ to wait; there was a broken piece of junk that had his name on. Well, metaphorically. A gramophone with the words Wilson P. Higgsbury repeated over and over again would be both disturbing and hilariously egotistical, he felt.  
Before diving his hands into the mess of parts, he glanced around- he didn’t _expect_ anyone to be there, given that he had been left on watch at the camp, but he didn’t really want anyone coming back to watch him tinker. It was never the same when someone watched, because they always expected him to explain what he was doing.  
Wilson despised explaining to non-scientific people how science and engineering worked, even more than he disliked talking to people in general.  
  
It wasn’t that he was anti-social; it was more like whenever he talked to anyone, he would get flustered. Of course, there were _some_ who brought on that effect more than others- namely, Wendy and Willow. Before he’d ended up here, he hadn’t spoken to a female in decades.  
Humming in thought as he examined the inside of the gramophone, Wilson tried to work out how many women he’d spoken to who hadn’t been his mother. The answer was an shockingly low number that could be counted on one hand.  
  
Something made a loud, alarming twang as he pulled it. Wilson frowned, carefully adjusting his seating position to see more of the inside of the gramophone, to the point where he was lying on his front, splayed across the wooden flooring of their camp. Scratching his head in thought, he tugged at something that looked like it would do something interesting if he harassed it.  
From the looks of it, the gramophone was a wind up contraption- and if the cursory glance he’d given the upper body of it was anything to go by, still had a record in. Which meant, and Wilson wasn’t sure if this conclusion was one he welcomed or not, that it would still play music.  
  
He tossed the stick he’d whittled into the shape of a spanner up and caught it in a gesture designed to make himself feel cooler than he actually was. The stick itself was fairly useless, although none of the other members of the camp needed to know that. Whatever kept Wilson’s carefully maintained image of “The Man Who Could Fix Anything, Including Things That Did Not Need Fixing”.  
  
He gave another cursory glance over his shoulder, to look towards the Science Machine that sat like a shrine in the very centre of their rectangular camp. As he did so, he happened to lock eyes with Willow as she sat a little bit away, and promptly scrambled up onto his knees to look as nonchalant as possible. Obviously she’d been there for a while, because her expression of very, very mild curiosity did not lift. Wilson lifted an eyebrow, before turning back to the gramophone.  
“How long have you been watching me?” he asked suspiciously, hesitant to start work again. There was a long pause before she replied.  
  
“A while. Do you mind?” she asked, shuffling closer. He looked over at the sound, before nodding curtly and turning back.  
Having Willow watching put a severe leash on the mental wandering Wilson’s thoughts partook in. To him, the peaceful silence now seemed more huge and oppressive.  
He wished he was as good as Wolfgang at letting his mouth run. A night didn’t run by without the Strongman’s huge, booming laughter at his own jokes, and now, by comparison, Wilson was sat with Willow in a quietness that seemed like it was taunting him.  
  
“Can you fix it?” she suddenly asked, the abruptness of her question almost making Wilson drop the wire he was holding.  
  
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Certainly. I can fix most things.” He replied, reaching for his hammer to bash something back into place. “I guess you could say I’m a _hit_ with this hammer.”  
He paused for effect, turning to give her a weak, forced smile, gesturing with the hammer.  
  
She stared at him, before her lips turned up at the corners ever so slightly, and he turned back, feeling, of all things, pleased with himself rather than the usual embarrassment that generally followed one of his poorly timed, unfunny puns.  
They fell into quiet again as he focused intently upon a spring that would not sit where it was supposed to.  
“Will it be able to play music?” she asked again. Wilson frowned, before nodding the affirmative.  
  
“Although if it gives Wolfgang a reason to sing, I would rather push it into the ocean.” He added in a mutter. “If I didn’t think it would help our moral, I would have got rid of it.”  
  
“I’m glad you didn’t.” she mumbled. “I would like to hear music again.”  
  
Wilson raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, pushing his sleeves up further before pushing a screw into place. Searching hurriedly to find something to say before the silence got too awkward, he leapt upon the first idea he thought of.  
“Fond of music?” he asked. “I’ve never been too keen, myself.”  
  
“I used to love music. And dancing, too. Fun ways to express myself when I couldn’t…Well…” she trailed off, lapsing into silence as Wilson nodded in what he hoped was a sympathetic way. Truthfully, he had no idea what was a sympathetic way of nodding. Generally, test tubes and lab rats didn’t require sympathy, so he was rather out of practice in that respect.  
  
“Well, hopefully you won’t be disappointed.” He assured her, turning his attention to the crank handle and continuing to talk so the damnable silence wouldn’t return. “Here’s hoping that we have something that produces music rather than long, sustained, inexplicable screaming, yes?”  
  
There was a click as he pressed the handle into where it was supposed to go, his expression beaming briefly as he enjoyed that slight thrill that came from the knowledge that he’d fixed that particular part. He smoothed his hair back, more out of the nerves of Willow watching him than anything else, standing up to focus on the bell of the gramophone- or rather, what was left of it.  
He frowned at it, before looking towards Willow.  
“Any ideas?” he asked, gesturing in general towards it.  
  
He wasn’t sure what made him ask her opinion- he’d reached the answer to the riddle of What Could Replace The Bell long before he’d asked her- but it seemed like something she would appreciate. Indeed, she looked at it for a while before clicking her fingers, her expression lifting into a smile that Wilson recognised as ‘I’ve Got An Idea!’, having seen that expression in his own reflection many a time. She pulled herself up, briefly using his arm as leverage, before dashing to their resident chest.  
  
Wilson watched as Chester happily gaped his mouth open for her, Willow hurrying back to thrust something into his waiting hands.  
He looked down at the beefalo horn he held, before he flashed a quick smile towards her, bending down to pull the remains of the rusted bell away from the gramophone and jamming the beefalo horn into the gap left. He stepped back, folding his arms in pride. Looking to Willow, he gestured to it, a grin on his face.  
“Ta-dah!” he cried, before patting the beefalo horn. “Good thinking.”  
  
She smiled slightly, and Wilson couldn’t help but notice a _tiny_ blush on her cheeks.  For some reason it made him feel weirdly warm inside. Like the kind of feeling he’d had when one of his experiments hadn’t been dismissed as insane and was given credibility.  It’d only happened once, but it had been _great_.  
He stepped back, nodding towards it.  
“You can give it a try first, if you’d like. You seem more a music lover than I, anyway.”  
  
She stepped past him and tentatively touched the handle, before gripping it and turning it. There was something about the entire action that filled Wilson with an odd form of suspense, and he realised he was holding his breath.  
She let go, placed the needle on the record, and moved back.  
  
Wilson stared at it, terrified that there was all that build up for nothing to happen, when the sound of muted, crackling singing started up.  
He frowned, completely at a loss for what this song was.  
  
Willow, however, seemed to recognise it immediately, her face a picture of recognition.  
“Sweet Adeline…” she mumbled. “I remember this song.”  
She looked at Wilson, beaming.  
“A dance, Mister Scientist? To say thank you for fixing it?”  
  
Wilson’s smile dropped at once, and he held his hands up protectively.  
“No! I don’t dance. Never have, never will. It’s not…” he trailed off, trying to find a reason. “Scientific.” He finished lamely.  
  
She sighed, huffing impatiently, before grabbing his arms and pulling him back towards the gramophone.  
“Put your hands here.” She instructed, ignoring his alarmed squawk.  
  
“There?!”  
  
“And mine go here.”  
  
“ _There?!”_  
Wilson couldn’t help but feel like suddenly everything had gone out of his control, because within a very short space of time, he was alarmingly close to Willow. He focused intently on something just off over her shoulder, unsure of what to do. He could hardly run, as she had her hands practically around his neck. It wouldn’t be polite to run, anyway…  
Besides- a small part of him was hesitant to admit that maybe this was enjoyable, this calmness. The gentle crooning of the barbershop quartet of the gramophone set a mood that even he, as cynical and grumpy as he could be, was powerless to ignore.  
  
The song gradually drew to a finish, and the silence swept in around them again. Wilson didn’t move, his heartbeat quickening, his eyes darting to meet hers and sticking there.  
“That was my first dance.” He blurted quietly. His palms seemed to have got wet for no reason. He hated inexplicable bodily cues.  
  
“You did well.” She replied softly, face moving a little closer to his. He _almost_ resisted the impulsion to meet her, moving slightly forward.  
He swallowed nervously.  
  
“That’s…” he paused, looking towards the gramophone. “ _Music_ to my ea- Oh.”  
  
Wes was staring at them from next to the gramophone, a wide, friendly smile on his face. Wilson sprang away from Willow, wiping his hands on his waistcoat, smoothing his hair back, and promptly tripping over Chester as he continued to move backwards. He sat there, his expression a picture of irritation and resignation as Wes continued to look between them.  
Willow, to her credit, looked embarrassed.  
  
“Evening! Mime man! Fire girl! Little science man! Is good day today, yes?”  
Wilson could have groaned. Wolfgang’s voice preceded him for a while before he came into view, Wendy behind him, the two of them immediately catching sight of Wilson’s collapsed form next to Chester. Usually, Wilson would have avoided the furry creature as much as possible, although everything was happening too fast for him to keep track of. Chester began to lick his face happily.  
“You fix music horn! And finally making happy times with chest on legs. Everything is good.”  
  
Wilson continued to look on hopelessly, his face still being harassed by Chester. Wolfgang dumped an arm full of logs next to the fire, beaming proudly, muttering while he worked. Willow stood still next to the fire, glancing at Wilson every so often, as Wolfgang proceeded to tell them about his day.  
“Wrestled with Tallbird! Went well!”  
  
“I had to call Abigail to help.” Wendy interjected as she threw some raw meat into the crockpot. Wilson pulled himself up, pushing Chester away as he glowered at the camp in general, moving himself to his tent to carry on working on his prior project.  
  
“Ghost girl only finish job! Still good!”  
  
Wilson settled back to working on the bunny trap, ignoring the meaningful glances Wes kept sending him, glaring at the rest of the camp periodically until well after the food had been served and the sun had gone down. The rest of them had already accepted the idea that when Wilson was sat by himself, intently focused on something, you left him alone. You gave him food silently, and you did not disturb him unless you wanted an unpleasantly explosive addition to your tent or your name was Wolfgang. Wilson was happy to let this idea remain, particular now more than ever.  
  
Later that night, when the fire was beginning to burn low and he staggered from his tent to throw more logs on it, deftly avoiding the sleeping form of Chester directly outside the tent opening. He rubbed his eyes, squinting through the darkness as he tiredly deposited more logs into the flame.  
All of a sudden, a hand wrapped itself around his wrist, pulling him backwards into the darker gloom. A flashback to how he’d ended up on this island threatened to present itself in his mind, before his brain alerted him to the fact the skin of the hand was pale and white, scuffed with the occasional burn scar.  
  
“This is for earlier.” A soft voice whispered, before Wilson felt a gentle kiss to his forehead. He rubbed it, confused, as the voice carried on. “Good night Wilson.”  
  
“You kissed my forehead.” He muttered in reply. “Did you mean to?”  
  
“What? No- I didn’t… Why is your head so huge? For goodness sake…“ the hurried mumble came back, and he felt her lips peck his. He smiled- although he wasn’t exactly sure why- before she pushed him back towards his tent. His smile turned into a grin, before his feet caught on the sleeping form of Chester and sent him barrelling into the calm darkness inside his tent with a yelp from both him and the creature who so enjoyed tripping him up.  
  
As he sat in the gloom, staring out towards the tent flaps with a bemused, if slightly perplexed expression, her laugh echoed quietly across the camp.  
  
Wolfgang was right. It had been a good day.


End file.
